The Fleet-Book Four Sworn Allies

by David Drake (ed)

  “Oh, wow . . .” he breathed, with a feeling of wonder and delight and peaceful . . .

  “Oh, shit . . .” Molly said grimly. A small yellow circle flared on the side of the outlined dreadnought and vanished. Two of the red outlined ships blinked and disappeared from the screen, their positions neatly filled by the pattern of dancing ships. On her left, the image of a ship, outlined in blue, flashed on the screen, stabilizing. The screen in front of her showed one of the blue ships brighter than the rest.

  The blue ship, Jayson realized with a jerk, was a Khalian cruiser. Another yellow circle flashed on the dreadnought, as four other yellow circles appeared in rapid sequence on the simulation of the planet.

  Molly touched the bug, listening, then shook her head. “No, repeat sequence,” she said to the air. The left-hand screen again began flashing diagrams.

  “What’s going on?” Jayson said, trying to be calm.

  “Well, snotnose,” she said, not bothering to look at him, “you wanted action. It looks like we’re crashing a little party.” She pointed to the screen above her. “Vega IX,” she said. “Good guys,” she pointed to the red. “Bad guys,” she indicated the blue. “What else do you need to know?”

  He ignored her sarcasm. “What are we going to do?”

  She grinned. “The Folly hasn’t always been a garbage scow,” she said, and as she started bringing up a bank of glowing indicators on the Sub-light panels, he heard her say almost inaudibly, “And I wasn’t always an old drunk.”

  Again, the left-hand screen stabilized on the blinking image of a Khalian cruiser, with the analogous blue ship blinking synchronistically on the overhead screen. Molly put her finger on the bug in her ear and sighed impatiently. “No, gaddamn it, repeat sequence.”

  “What are you looking for?” Jayson asked.

  Molly nodded at the display above her head, the red and blue ships weaving like tiny maypole dancers around the huge ships.

  “Khalians aren’t too bright, kid. One of them bastards is the guy calling all the shots. Find him, they all fall down.”

  “But how do you know which one?”

  “Analyze the flight patterns. Too many ships buzzin’ close around to depend on individual pilots. Most of it’s done by interlinked defense computers. But”—she shrugged—“once in a while somebody gets off a shot and changes the odds. Then it’s a scramble to see how much damage you can do before the other guy figures out how to cover his ass.”

  It wasn’t how he thought it would be at all. The courageous deeds of holovision heroes battling single-handedly, their manly sweat dripping in their eyes as they braved incredible odds through smoke and fire and screams of fallen comrades, had been far more exciting than the actual battle. He fidgeted in the copilot’s chair as Molly chewed leisurely on a fresh Khalian stick, listening to the bug, watching the constant flood of data on the screens. He jumped nervously, keyed up in the quiet, as Molly smacked one fist against the palm of her hand.

  “Gotcha, y’son of a bitch!” she said to the flickering image of a Khalian light cruiser on the screen. She pointed to it. “That’s the one we want.”

  “How do you know?” The image didn’t look any different from any other the computer had selected.

  “A little birdie told me.” She grinned at him, her metal teeth, glittering with feral delight. “You wanted to be a pilot?” she asked him. “Now’s your chance, boy.”

  He felt a thrill of delight and fear shiver through him. At last, something was going to happen. “What do you want me to do?” he asked, attempting to convince her he was ready by his calm voice and demeanor.

  “We’re going to do something dangerous.” Her gnarled fingers jabbed at a control board. “We’re going to go straight in and mirror that bastard. Hopefully, the Khalia won’t figure out that we’re not friends until after I’ve shoved a couple of 200 megaCannons up their ass and we punch out on the same trajectory we came in on. Crude, but effective.”

  “How do I do that?” he said eagerly.

  “You don’t. That’s what the computers are for. But I have to go below and open up our little surprise package. I want you to keep your eyes on this.” She pointed to a steady green light.”

  “Okay,” he said expectantly, looking at it intently.

  “If it turns red, you hit this button here.” She touched a small button on the arm of his copilot’s seat.

  “Then what?”

  “Scream. That’s the intercom.”

  He felt deeply disappointed, and although he tried to mask it, she gripped his shoulder. “Look, boy,” she said, “the Khalia aren’t going to know who we are, and neither are any of those Alliance pilots. We have to go in fast and get out fast, before somebody takes exception to our looks and blows our asses straight to hell. We’re just a random factor, that’s all. Y’want to play hero, or keep your butt in one piece?”

  He nodded, feeling both chastised and appeased. “Okay, Molly,” he said.

  She grunted and climbed out of the pilot’s bridge, the f’ward cockpit hatch closing behind her.

  On the screen, the computer simulation grew as the Folly curved gently into the path of the target Khalian vessel. Although he knew they were much too far away to have actually seen the ships weaving in deadly configurations, the images on the screen compressed the design into a vividness that itched on his skin and churned his stomach. As they closed on the ship, the images began to quicken, occurring with a speed only the interlinked ship’s computers could have dealt with. His finger poised above the intercom button began to shake.

  In the space of a heartbeat, he saw the outline of the blue Khalian target begin to turn. He saw a flash of light as a tremor rippled through the Folly. He saw the burst of light shudder through the screens. He felt the hair on his body stand up with its own weird energy. He saw the lights flicker, wavering in a groan he felt resonate through his feet, through his skull. He saw the light blink from red to green.

  In the space of a heartbeat, his finger jabbed down hard on the intercom button.

  “Molly!”

  “Shit! Shit! Shit!” he heard her tinny voice yelling, and her voice cut out as the artificial gravity abruptly winked off. Two of the screens were dead, with only the center screen flickering bravely with distortion.

  “Molly! What should I do?” he pleaded.

  The air was dead, and he was afraid for a moment that they had been cut off from each other. Then her voice said with flat quiet, “Listen to me, boy. Do exactly what I tell you.”

  Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thought that had he been less terrified, had he not felt utterly incompetent, this would have been the moment he had waited for to prove himself. As it was, all he felt was the overwhelming desire to piss.

  “Release the three main switches on the Sub-light guidance board to your left. D’ya see them?”

  He stared at the mass of blinking lights around him, made all the more confused in the half-light of the pilot’s bridge, and hesitated.

  “Gaddamn it, d’ya see them or not?” Molly’s voice exploded in the air. His hands fluttered around the controls, unsure, frightened. “Now! Now!” Molly screamed.

  He hit the control panel blindly, hoping by some miracle it would be right. With a sickening whine of old grav engines pushed past their limits, the Folly began a slow roll, shuddering violently.

  “You idiot!” Molly howled in the darkness. “The Left! The left!”

  Whimpering in frustration and terror, he tried desperately to search for a way to control the ship. The Folly’s internal gravity winked on, pushing him down, and then off, as Molly’s voice bellowed incoherently as the 200’s fired and then snapped off into sudden silence.

  “Ohgod . . . Ohgod . . . Ohgod . . .” he repeated like a litany, pulling on this, pushing on that, trying desperately to make some sense out of the Sub-light systems data po
uring from the guidance computers. The sound of tormented engines and ripping metal drowned out Molly’s words as she vaulted into the pilot’s bridge, scrabbling with maniacal fingers at the controls. Slowly, systems shut down; and the Folly’s violent tremors ceased, the sudden silence deafening as the Folly drifted powerless.

  Molly hung upside down in the null-gravity, glaring two inches away from his face. Small red droplets of blood squeezed out from a gash on her forehead and undulated off across the bridge. One of them splashed against his nose.

  “You,” she said with deadly calm, “are the stupidest gaddamned son of a bitch I’ve ever met.” Her hands jerked out and grabbed him by the throat, squeezing tightly as she shook him in rage. “I’m gonna kill your stupid ass!” she howled, banging his head against the copilot’s chair. He clutched her wrists, vainly trying to release her choking grip from his neck.

  Their struggle carried him out of the chair, slamming against the control board. The malfunctioning speaker blared to life, the Sub-light siren squalling in alarm as a ship-to-ship clamored for attention.

  “. . . of the Alliance Flagship Exeter, calling the Freighter NP375, are you there? This is the Alliance Flagship Exeter, calling the Freighter NP375, Molly’s Folly, please respond . . .” Momentarily frozen, she clung to the boy, then released her hold to work the communications board.

  “I gotta get this damned thing fixed, “ she swore, and spoke into the transmitter. “This is the Molly’s Folly . . .”

  Somehow, the Exeter had picked up a signal transmission the Folly had sent during her flight out of the battle. The Exeter, suddenly confronted with a disintegrating Khalian attack formation, was mystified by their sudden demoralization and the steady stream of a merchant code transmission from a freighter’s computer guidance system, calling vainly for acknowledgment from a planetary system three secpars away!

  By the time a small tow tug had pulled the crippled Folly into the dreadnought’s repair bays, the Exeter had cleared out the Vegan IX solar system and landed troops on the mining planet. Molly and Jayson walked off the Folly after the Exeter’s crew pried open her partially slagged outer hatch. A small group of Fleet officers stood in formation and snapped to attention. Molly hefted a small sack to her shoulder and ignored the officers’ salute while Jayson glanced at her, open-mouthed.

  “Lt. Haskowin, I’m Captain James Altpark,” the leading officer said formally. “The commander requests your immediate presence.”

  “Retired, snotnose,” Molly growled, and tossed the dirty little sack into the captain’s astonished arms. “Let the old man give a look at these before I haul my butt anywhere. Then, if he wants me, I’ll be in the bar.”

  She walked off, a Khalian stick firmly in her mouth and Jayson trailing behind.

  By the time the commander found them, Molly had already started in on her fifth drink and was feeling quite peaceful. Jayson sat stiffly across from her, hand curled around a half-empty beer, and looked up as the commander walked over. Jayson half stood, uncertain how to address the imposing officer towering above them. The commander ignored him, glaring down at the obviously inebriated Molly Haskowin.

  “Lt. Haskowin?”

  “Retired,” she mumbled, not looking up.

  Snapping his fingers at the bartender, he sat, and said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lieutenant.”

  “Retired,” Molly repeated, focusing red eyes hostilely. The commander dumped a few of the mol-tapes Molly had sent to him in the sack she’d tossed at the captain.

  “Could you give me an explanation, Lieutenant?”

  She pushed one of the mol-tapes with one finger back at him. “Explanation? Well, I thought you might be interested in Khalian music, Commander.” She grinned up at him, exposing her sharpened teeth.

  Slowly, the commander nodded and looked at Jayson. “So you two took out the Khalian command ship,” he said, as if he didn’t quite believe it.

  Molly sat up straight in the booth. “I knew I got that squeaky little bastard! Ah-ha-ha . . .” Her giggles died out.

  “You have quite a reputation, Lieutenant,” the commander ground out. “It appears you’re still one hell of a fighter pilot. And we don’t have enough pilots out here as it is. I’d like to reactivate your status. Full pay, Lieutenant, and maybe a promotion.”

  Molly’s eyes narrowed as she stared warily at him. “Huh?” she said, the edge of the alcohol wearing off.

  “Vega IX is in a valuable part of this sector. Its strategic importance as well as the materials the miners are supplying to the Fleet must be protected. We need all the pilots we can get.” The commander was leaning across the table earnestly.

  Jayson watched as Molly’s face paled slightly. Then he saw her do something that awed him, surprised him, scared him. He watched Molly Haskowin grow old. She crumpled a little in her seat, shrinking in on herself, growing frail, fragile. She looked up at the Fleet commander with rheumy eyes deep in a wrinkled, ravaged face. When she spoke, her voice was cracked and whining.

  “Y’ got it wrong, sir,” she said. “This snotn . . . this young man, here, he’s your hero.”

  Jayson gaped in amazement as the commander examined him skeptically.

  “We jumped sub-light blind right into the middle of your mess, and, well, my nerves aren’t worth shit these days. I have to have an apprentice to fly from here to the toilet these days. Anyway, we plugged into the transmission bands, and . . . it was all this young man’s idea, y’know . . . we listened until we heard that ungodly screeching. Well, Jayson, here, he’d been doin’ a bit of study, and recognized Khalian command codes.”

  “You can understand Khalian?” the commander demanded dubiously.

  “Uhhh . . .” Jayson looked at Molly.

  “Enough to know which of them Weasels to stick it to. The Folly’s got a few defensive missiles we’ve picked up from here and there . . . nothing fancy . . .”

  “Yesss . . .” the commander said, frowning.

  “Hell, it was lucky I hit anything at all. Couldn’ta done it without ol’ Jayson, here. Born to fly, a real natural.”

  She glanced up at Jayson, and for a second, he saw the spark of Molly’s old mocking grin. He was aware that his jaw was beginning to ache from hanging open, and he clamped his mouth shut.

  “Well, son,” the commander said warmly, but with a raised eyebrow, “if you’re half as good as the Lieutenant says, we could use a good pilot in the Fleet.”

  “Go ahead, boy,” Molly said tiredly, wrapping gnarled, liver-spotted fingers around her drink. “Y’won’t learn much hauling cargo with me. I’ll get by.”

  Jayson stated at the commander. The Fleet officer stood up, clearly deciding the issue for himself. “Report to the Personnel office in an hour, son. Welcome aboard.” Saluting Molly, who gave back a weary salute with a muttered “retired,” he strode off.

  Jayson leaned across the table toward her. “Why did you do that? I can’t fly! I screwed up everything!”

  She drained her glass and fished in the pockets of her overalls for coins. “Better you than me, snotnose,” she said, the old vitality returned in force.

  “But . . .” Jayson protested.

  “Look, you want to, fly. I want to be left alone and unload this Khalian booze as quietly as possible and get the hell out of here. I’m too old for this guts and glory crap anymore, and that’s the truth.” She counted out the money onto the table. “Maybe after I unload the Bloodstone Dust, I’ll go home for a little visit. Take a rest.” She smiled slightly.

  “Home?” he asked as she stood up to leave.

  “Fort Worth, Texas.”

  His jaw dropped. “Texas, Earth?”

  “There’s only one Texas in the universe, Junior, and one’s enough.” She stopped to look at him, pausing with her hands searching her pockets for a Khalian stick. “Do me a favor, kid. Try not to get your but
t shot off the first time you take up a fighter, okay?”

  For a second, he felt a strange sensation of warmth and affection for her. He had made it, really made it. His dreams were finally real. He smiled at her. “Sure, Molly,” he said, with a private determination to make her proud.

  “Good,” she, said, and walked away, jamming the stick in the comer of her mouth. “Gaddamned things are expensive as hell. Be a shame to waste one.”

  Auro looked up from the study cube. It took his eyes several seconds to adjust. Blurred, his rusty cabin in the Red Ball looked almost appealing. Then his eyes focused on a spot where the bulkhead was both scarred and rusted. Why did the most modern fighting force in the galaxy need these freighters?

  Admiral Dav Su Allison, retired

  Rules of Command

  25.546T/E6.2

  Technology

  Technology is always a two-edged sword. Its value is often more than balanced by a dependence on rare or exotic materials that has the net effect of hampering the war effort. A prime example of this is the Beiji field as employed by the Alsation Federation in their resistance to amalgamation to the Alliance. While the field successfully distorted sensor and targeting readings, it also proved sensitive to low spectrum waves. The Beiji field’s high power requirements precluded the use of shields, rendering exposed warships highly vulnerable. The battle of the double moons, more commonly referred to as the Muriannas Greple Shoot, resulted in the near-complete destruction of the Alsation navy. Had the Alsations relied upon conventional technology, it is possible to speculate that they would have posed a much greater challenge to the then politically crippled Fleet.

  Perhaps of even greater concern is the paradox historically dominant in the development of military technology. War and near war conditions provide the impetus for the rapid development of new technologies. A war situation is also the least desirable of conditions under which to test or introduce any radically new technology. It is the recognition of this, often mistaken for traditionalism, that has proven one of the Fleet’s strongest assets. In early times the tactics were often slow to develop, creating wars that were fought with tactics made obsolete by technological innovations. The Fleet has made a conscious decision to fight each war using the methods and tactics with which it is familiar. Only when a new development is so significant as to render the existing strategies useless, should a change be made.